


thorns

by acronymed



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Onesided-Beronica, Onesided-Bughead, Post-1x06, Veronica is not having any of it, core four make an appearance because i'm trash for them, jughead is A Mess, plus kevin - Freeform, this is a monster im not sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 12:11:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13235484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acronymed/pseuds/acronymed
Summary: “Jughead,” she says, perfectly condescending, a flash of the person she used to be, a queen encased in ice, “you’re sitting in a diner, alone, at eleven o’clock on a Saturday night doing everything you can to not think about Betty Cooper and doing it anyways.” She leans back in her seat, arms folded primly. “You’re the very definition of a pity party.”“Is this how you make all your friends?” He stares at the ceiling, willing it to give him the strength to survive hurricane Veronica. “No wonder you have a grand total of three.”Or: Jughead and Veronica pine separately, then together, then not at all. Post-1x06.





	thorns

**Author's Note:**

> take me back to sweet cinnamon roll season 1 babies thank you. 
> 
> this went from slight crack/fluff to basically a 20+ page monster of adoration for these two messed up kids and all the things they could be.

“Heard you got friend zoned,” is what Veronica greets him with, sliding into the booth and immediately stealing one of his fries. Jughead squints at her. “Sucks.”

“There’s no such thing as the friend zone,” he deadpans. “It’s a patriarchal construct meant to make sad little men feel like women owe them something just for being decent human beings.”

Veronica raises her eyebrows, the edge of her mouth quirking, and stays quiet. It’s a look that says _I’m from New York, remember?_ It’s a look that says _I know that already_. It’s a look that says _you aren’t fooling anyone, Jones._

Jughead exhales, hard. “Fine, you banshee. I got friend zoned. Happy?”

“Elated,” she drawls. He jabs the fleshy bit between her thumb and forefinger with the blunt end of his pen when she goes to grab another fry. She barely reacts and swipes one with her other hand instead.

It’s a weird exchange all around, he thinks. Like, really fucking weird. But it’s also classic Veronica - the new girl who wove herself so seamlessly into their lives, like there’d always been a space she was meant to fill. Even now, with the casual way she’d sat across from him and started pilfering his food - something he knows she’s aware he hates - it had been so completely unthreatening that if he were anyone else he wouldn’t have thought twice.

But he’s Jughead Jones. He always thinks twice, and he’s pretty sure he knows Veronica in ways you only can if you’re looking. It’s how she won’t be deterred, even with something as simple as fries, that look of _I want that and I’m going to get it_ he thinks most people associate with classic Rich Bitch Syndrome but he knows is just a culmination of her confidence and stubbornness. It’s the way she switches hands when he jabs her, without skipping a beat, always the girl with a plan, with a backup; always the girl thinking one step ahead.

“Are you psychoanalyzing me?” She’s smirking at him now. “You are!”

“No,” he starts, stops. “Maybe.”

“Your eyes glazed over when I took this fry.” She waves said fry in question around, a bit of ketchup on the end. Jughead finds himself hoping maybe some of it will get on her dress. She’s making him petty. Great. “I figured you’d had an epiphany. Maybe decided my disregard for people’s french fries had something to do with my sense of entitlement. Or you were having a stroke.”

She says it like she’s heard it all before. Jughead wonders.

“You have a lot of issues,” he sighs, resigning himself to the fact that she isn't going anywhere and closing his laptop. He’s unnerved by how easily she can read him. “But being a spoiled socialite isn’t one of them.”

She blinks at him once, possibly startled. Then her face smoothes over into her trademark grin, that mischievous glint in her eyes. “Oh, my. Has broody, mysterious Jughead Jones been paying attention to little old me?”

He rolls his eyes. “Out of necessity, not need, I assure you.”

Necessity meaning Betty, he doesn’t say, but she knows and they’re back to the topic at hand. Maybe she’ll leave him alone after this. He doubts it.

“And what’s the verdict?” That coy grin is wavering a bit. “Am I worthy of our fair maiden, Lady Cooper?”

Jughead has his whole sarcastic answer planned out, has had it planned out since Betty let him down in that sweet, apologetic way of hers, the warmth of her fingers on his cheek. He’d thought she was going to start crying then, which didn't make any sense when he was the one getting rejected, but he’d realized she was scared and lonely and that he hadn’t picked the best time to try to bring feelings into the mix and she needed a friend more than she needed anything else. He’d also known Veronica would probably comment on it, because she was Betty’s best friend and odds were Betty had made lists and talked herself into a mess before she’d gone to her. So. He’s been waiting for this talk, which he’s going to make extremely short and unemotional.

And then his _stupid fucking mouth_ goes, “nobody is” and he actually wants to die.

“I know,” Veronica says, with no humour, just a sad lilt in her voice and her eyes distant and _oh_. Jughead gets it. Has always suspected it, but can now confirm. This was why they could read each other. Why they were always hesitantly in each other’s orbit, circling closer and closer to their teenage dream version of the sun.

“Huh.” He stares at the crinkle between her brows. “That explains the sudden interest in my fries.”

“Friends who pine together stay together,” she says simply. She won’t meet his eyes either. They’re in a strange state of vulnerability right now, and he doesn’t know how to navigate it anymore than she does. Last time he felt this raw with someone, it was Archie and, even then, Archie was predictable and safe. Jughead’s known from day one Veronica is neither of those things. “And I need someone to rant about her crazy ass family too.”

Jughead scowls. “I’m not pining.”

Veronica snorts. “Chapter three,” she says dramatically, her voice pitching low, “the darkness of this town runs deep, but where there are shadows there must also be light. Sometimes it’s in the comfort of small town routine, or knowing the sun will rise. For me, though, it’s always been in the girl next door.”

Jughead looks at her blankly, something burning in his chest. “Was that supposed to be me?”

“Depends.” She stares back at him. “How accurate was I?”

“Fuck you.”

“Very accurate, then.” She’s going to drive him to violence at this point, can’t she take a hint, he doesn’t want to talk about this shit or deal with it or even think about it. “We should think of a club name.”

“You can,” he snarls. “I don’t want any part of your woe-is-me pity party.”

Infuriatingly, she giggles at that. Jughead could throttle her. “Jughead,” she says, perfectly condescending, a flash of the person she used to be, a queen encased in ice, “you’re sitting in a diner, alone, at eleven o’clock on a Saturday night doing everything you can to not think about Betty Cooper and doing it anyways.” She leans back in her seat, folds her arms primly. “You’re the very definition of a pity party.”

“Is this how you make all your friends?” He stares at the ceiling, willing it to give him the strength to survive hurricane Veronica. “No wonder you have a grand total of three.”

“Four, now,” she says sweetly, smiling with all her teeth, and waves down the only waitress working. “Two large double chocolate milkshakes and another plate of fries, please.”

Jughead fixes her with a look that says, he hopes, she’s insane. Her smile grows, if possible. “We’re going to be here a while.”

“Goddammit,” he grumbles, debating strangling himself with his laptop cord. “What is my life even.”

“A struggle, clearly,” she drawls, and that’s how he ends up becoming friends with Veronica Lodge.

.

.

.

Veronica’s leaning against his locker, checking her Twitter for probably the twentieth time in as many minutes, when he gets to school on Monday. He stares pointedly at where her hip is braced against the door until she looks up from her phone and smiles.

“Morning, Nosferatu.” She sidesteps so her back is to Dilton’s locker. He crouches down, pops the lock, and ignores the poke she directs at the side of his head. “You look like a hot mess of insomnia.”

Jughead exhales deeply, leans his forehead against the cool edge of the shelf his camera is currently occupying, and mutters, “it’s too early for you.”

“Hashtag _rude_ ,” she says, and nudges his thigh with one of her heels. This is the sort of thing he’d expect from Archie, or even Betty, not from a girl he’d literally only started speaking to on any kind of deeper level two days ago. “Seriously, though, did you sleep at all this weekend?”

“I had night terrors.” He looks up at her seriously from under his bangs. “You were in them.”

Veronica isn’t fazed. “Then you woke up and realized it wasn’t a dream, right?”

“Now you’re catching on.”

She rolls her eyes and flips her hair over one bare shoulder. “Whatever, My Chemical Woe-mance. Want a coffee? I’m in serious need of a caffeine fix.”

Suddenly, Jughead is acutely aware that every person in this hallway basically is giving them some version of the side-eye. He chances a look at Veronica as he shuts his locker and stands, but she’s oblivious. That, or she doesn’t care. Probably the latter. “Are you asking me out?”

She’s examining her nails when she goes, “I mean, I am the girl of your dreams.”

“Nightmares,” he corrects, and is alarmed to find himself falling into step beside her as they walk to the cafeteria.

“Same difference.” That sneaky little half-smile of hers is back in place. Jughead continues to wonder how this has become his life as Kevin joins them just outside Weatherbee’s office and starts gossiping with Veronica about whatever.

Archie and Betty catch up with them while they’re in line for the coffee machine, Veronica and Kevin lost in what is surely a deep conversation on the merits of instant versus fresh brewed while Jughead continues to question all of his life choices up until this point.

“Morning, Juggie,” Betty says with a nervous smile. He smiles back, because he hates seeing her in any kind of distress, and the tension in her face eases. “How was your weekend?”

“Stressful,” he deadpans, staring directly at the back of Veronica’s head. She glances over her shoulder at him, tips her chin, and winks. “ _Excessively_ stressful.”

“You’re excessive,” Veronica says, without missing a beat. She’s got two lidless styrofoam cups in her hands and Kevin is looking between them like he’s in the Twilight Zone. Jughead can relate. “How many sugar?”

“None, I’m sweet enough.”

Veronica drops two sugar cubes in what he’s assuming is his cup just to spite him.

Archie, who’d greeted him with a slap on the back and a manly head nod that Jughead isn’t entirely sure was meant ironically, finally goes, “wait, what the hell?”

“Jughead’s my new best friend,” Veronica says, completely serious. Jughead half wants to play along just to see Archie make that face again. “Since someone decided to bail on our Saturday night plans to hang out with you, Ed Sheeran.”

Well, that explains why Veronica was in Pop’s at some unholy hour by herself.

Betty has her wounded puppy eyes on, which Jughead knows Veronica is weak to because he’s weak to them as well. She slides past him, hand brushing his back, to curl up against Veronica’s side and put her head on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, V. Archie had a date with Valerie and he needed help figuring out what to wear. And do. And where to take her.”

Jughead snorts and looks at Archie fondly. “Prepared as always, I see.”

“Shut up, dude,” Archie mumbles, blushing a little, but his upper lip is twitching.

Veronica heaves a long suffering sigh, trying to balance Betty’s head while putting lids on their coffees. She shoves his into his chest, half turns, and mutters, “fine, but you owe me so bad,” into Betty’s hair.

Betty steps back, claps her hands in front of her and beams. “I’ll make it up to you this weekend, I swear. My mom’s at a conference - did you want to sleep over Friday?”

Jughead sees several emotions flit across Veronica’s face before she finally smiles softly. “Yeah, of course.”

“I better be invited,” Kevin huffs. He’s still giving Jughead weird looks. “We haven’t had a girls night in forever.”

“Of course.” Betty smiles prettily at him. Jughead’s breathing stutters; Veronica’s fingers are clenching around her coffee hard enough she might spill it. “We’ll hash it out at lunch.”

Kevin throws an arm around her as the bell rings. Jughead has AP English, which is on the complete opposite side of the school from everyone else’s classes, so he breaks off from them with a wave and a grunt.

Veronica’s heels click as she catches up to him. She waves her hand in his face, which makes him have to stop. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see their group staring at them. “You okay to eat lunch with them today or do you wanna go somewhere else?”

“Oh my God,” Jughead mutters. “I’m not the one who looked at her like she was a two thousand dollar handbag earlier.”

Veronica looks at him like he is truly stupid. “No, you just look at her like she’s the Judy to your Jim Stark.”

Jughead is startled by the reference, has never considered Veronica the kind of girl to be into James Dean, or really anything that he likes. He actually doesn’t know what to do with this new information.

Then, she ruins it all by going: “And I’ll have you know my handbags are _much_ more expensive than that, thank you.”

Jughead rolls his eyes. “Of course they are - God forbid you spend your excessive amounts of wealth on anything _useful_.”

Veronica flips her hair over one shoulder. “I wasn’t aware that _useful_ and _buying you burgers_ were synonymous.”

 _She’s got me there,_ he thinks, annoyed, and grumps, “guess you learn something new every day.” He’s going to be so late for class. “It’ll be fine, Richie Rich.”

“Ugh, whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “I’ll give you a lift home, then.”

“Are you trying to get me alone?”

Veronica exhales through her nose. “I’m trying to be your _friend_ , dumbass.”

Jughead’s never heard her swear before. He sort of figured she thought she was above that, but he also thought she was just another snob when he first met her and she’s proving herself to be full of surprises.

He can’t let her weasel her way into his housing situation like she’s invaded every other part of his life, though, because the last thing he needs is _Veronica Lodge_ finding out he’s sleeping in a broom closet.

“I’ll do you one better,” he finds himself saying, for reasons not even he can fully explain, “Pop’s tonight. Eight o’clock.”

“Now who’s asking who out?”

Jughead’s eye twitches. “Yes or no, you menace.”

Veronica smirks. “Deal. But if you stand me up, I’m going full scorched earth on you.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Jughead mumbles, but she doesn’t hear him and he doesn’t look back when she walks away.

.

.

.

Hitting Pop’s once a week with Veronica turns into twice a week, then three times, then they’re pretty much there every day after school (when he isn’t at the Blue and Gold, and even then sometimes Veronica would hang out with him and Betty and then drag him out for burgers while Betty squinted at them like she was trying to solve a mystery) and Jughead is running out of ways to get her to leave before him so she doesn’t see him head back to the school.

“Are you okay?” she asks, so he knows the stress is starting to show. “You look even more tragic than usual.”

“I could ask you the same thing, Little Penthouse on the Prairie. Do you even go home anymore?”

Veronica avoids his eyes, the very picture of perfect posture and elegance in her pearls and pencil skirt. Jughead has his feet kicked up on the seat next to her, slouched down enough his shirt is riding up in the back. She folds one leg over the other and sighs. “My mother and I are fighting.”

Jughead snorts. “You don’t say.”

She bites the corner of her mouth. “It’s just… the Pembrooke doesn’t feel like a home, right now.”

That’s something Jughead can relate to _deeply_ , not that he can tell her that. He’s pretty sure she’s never had to deal with two am yelling matches between her parents and half-empty flasks littering the living room floor, with walking home from school three hours after your dad was supposed to pick you up with your kid sister and finding him passed out on the couch drunk, with a cold and empty trailer because your mom took off and your dad’s an unemployed gangbanger who doesn’t pay the heating bill.

He’s never had one of his parents ripped away from him, though, not so sharply that he never got to say goodbye and the wound refuses to heal. He’s never had everything he’s ever known stripped from him, mostly because he never really had anything to begin with (except Jellybean, but she calls him every other day and texts him memes she shouldn’t even know exist because she’s ten and he still has her, even if she’s far away. He never has to press collect and accept charges when he phones her. He never has to wonder if he’ll ever see her again).

“Give me your phone,” is what he says, because there’s a rawness in her face that he finds uncomfortably familiar. “I’m up late a lot. So if it’s ever too much or whatever… you know.”

He can see her throat work as she swallows. Her eyes are shiny, but not wet. “Thanks.”

“If you call me to complain about some empty headed piece of meat, though, I’m blocking your number.”

Veronica gives a watery bark of laughter, the sort where you weren’t expecting it and it forces its way out almost painfully. “Trust me, my days with the football team are long gone.”

Jughead nudges her leg with his sneaker and raises his eyebrows. “Who said anything about the football team?”

Veronica, with her heels and her prim handshakes and her designer handbags, rolls her eyes and flips him off so easily he thinks once upon a time she wasn’t quite so classic. The thought makes his lips twitch.

Pop’s door chimes clink together, then, and someone goes, “Jug, Ronnie! Hey!”

“Here comes the cavalry,” Jughead mutters, slinking even lower in his seat, his knee bending enough that his calf drags down the length of her thigh. Veronica squints at him - trying to figure out if he’d done it on purpose or not, probably.

She has to squeeze in against the wall to make room for Betty and Kevin to both sit. Her nose wrinkles when the sleeve of her dress catches on the jagged edge of the windowsill, tugging a thread loose. Jughead, blessed with almost two feet of space between him and Archie, smirks.

“This is new,” she grumbles, plucking at the thread with something eerily close to a pout which is - well, it’s ridiculous, actually. Veronica doesn’t _pout_ ; she unleashes hailstorms of brimstone and fire and biting wit on unsuspecting victims (see: him). She doesn’t look endearingly tragic squinting at a loose black string and - wait, _endearingly?_

Oh God, he actually _likes_ her. Not just tolerates - he finds her quirks charming, the same way he finds Archie’s and Betty’s.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, out loud, suddenly wanting nothing more than to hurl himself over the back of the booth and possibly into oncoming traffic. Everyone stares at him.

“What?” Betty’s nose scrunches cutely, all big blue eyes and feathery lashes. Jughead tries to focus on how his breathing used to hitch when she walked into a room but he can’t seem to summon the memory. Or, when he does, it doesn’t feel the same. Less aching. More nostalgic.

“Nothing.” He coughs to cover the fact that Veronica has pinched his ankle with two sharp, perfectly manicured nails. She probably thinks he referring to her sulking which, well, she isn’t wrong. “Just never thought I’d see Veronica get reduced to a spoiled, moping five year old over a piece of thread.”

“I am not _moping_ ,” Veronica hisses, with no venom, and goes to pinch him again. Jughead pushes his foot into her leg to pin her hand between his shin and her hip. She digs her knuckles into the knobby bone of his ankle instead. “You’re insufferable.”

“Says the girl who keeps pinching me,” Jughead points out. Veronica huffs and looks out the window. She stops trying to assault him, but she’d rucked up the hem of his jeans and the back of her hand is warm against his skin. He gestures to the rest of their group. “See? Five.”

They all blink back at him. No one says anything. Veronica turns when the silence stretches too long, brows knitting downward. “What?”

“You two sure are spending a lot of time together,” Kevin says slowly, steepling his fingers under his chin like some kind of super villain. Jughead feels an ominous sense of foreboding wash over him - even more ominous than when he’d realized he actually found Veronica a halfway decent person to hang out with. “Do I sense a new power couple emerging?”

Veronica chokes. “ _No_.”

“It offends me that you’re so offended,” Jughead grumbles.

Veronica wiggles her pinned hand out from her side and pats his forearm condescendingly. “I know.”

Betty’s doing that slow single eyebrow raise she always does when she finds something particularly curious and wants to figure it out. Jughead doesn’t find it so much adorable anymore as _extremely alarming_. She’s staring at where Veronica’s palm lingers on his jacket. It makes Jughead pull away, embarrassed for reasons he doesn’t quite understand. “Well, I’m glad you two are finally getting along.”

Her smile is bright and happy, but tinged with mischief, like she’s in on a joke Jughead himself isn’t even privy to. She puts her head on Veronica’s shoulder, looping her arm under Jughead’s bent knee to grab her hand. It’s so natural for her, to invade Veronica’s personal space and not think twice about it, but Jughead sees the whisper of longing that flashes across Veronica’s face as she presses her cheek to the crown of Betty’s head. He imagines how much more it must hurt for her - to be so close, physically and emotionally, and yet so very, very far.

This is probably why he goes, “Elvira, we’re going to be late for the movie.”

Veronica stares at him blankly, cheek still pillowed on Betty’s baby fine hair. This is an appropriate response considering there actually _isn't_ a movie and there had never _been_ a movie and he’s clearly losing his goddamn mind if his first response to seeing Veronica ache the way she is is to _lie_.

 _Just go with it_ , he thinks frantically, giving her eyes he hopes look pleading and not crazy.

He watches her bite her lower lip in confusion, then flick her gaze between Betty and him. God, please don’t let her think he’s _jealous_ or something. He raises both his eyebrows in response. She squints, then Betty shifts against her, lifts her head, and she must realize what the physical contact was doing to her, what he’d seen, because suddenly her eyes go curious-bright and surprised.

“Oh,” she says, smoothing out her skirt with affected boredom, the pads of her fingers dancing over his shin quickly in what he thinks is a silent approximation of _thanks_ as he lowers his leg to the floor, “you’re right. We better get going.”

“You’re going to the movies?” Archie sounds about as confused as Jughead feels, now that he realizes he can have an entire conversation with Veronica via eye contact and touch alone. “Like, together?”

“ _Together_ -together?” Kevin adds helpfully. Veronica lobs one of her cold fries at him. “Or not.”

“Yes,” Veronica sniffs primly, rising with all the grace he would expect from an ex-socialite, “we are. I need _someone_ to discuss the nuances of cinema with.”

Betty’s mouth curls on one side. “Isn’t the only thing playing right now an Adam Sandler rom-com?”

How Veronica maintains her composure, Jughead will never know, because he definitely trips over Archie mid-booth escape at that. Veronica looks at him longsufferingly and slides out past Betty and Kevin with a carefully controlled hair flip. “I didn’t say they were good nuances.”

Jughead bites his cheek to stifle a laugh. Now that her back is to everyone except him, he can see the way she’s desperately trying to keep it together. Her lower lip quivers.

 _Not a word_ , she mouths, when he has to disguise a snort as a sneeze in his sleeve.

“Have fun,” Betty says with a grin. She can read them both too well to _not_ know they’re lying.

“Keep it PG,” Kevin deadpans. “Or make my Vughead dreams come true - either or.”

“Uh.” Archie scratches his cheek, gaze flitting between the two of them like he wants to say something else. Betty suddenly jerks and Archie winces, which means she probably kicked him under the table to stop him from saying something… Archie-like. “See you guys tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, then,” Veronica says with a smile and a half wave, and then grabs his elbow to drag him out of the diner in a flurry of clicking heels and dark hair. Jughead is trying to figure out how he’s the one getting hauled around when the escape plan was his (poorly thought out) idea to begin with.

They stand in front of her town car, which Jughead has just come to assume sits and waits for her at all times all day because he never sees her call anyone to come pick her up. From the front seat, Smithers tips his hat at him with a kind smile - he knows Jughead, now, what with how much time Veronica spends harassing him, and Jughead is pretty sure he’s seen the butler flash him a pitying look on more than one occasion.

“ _Donnie Darko_ at my place?” Veronica says, head tilted, black hair pushed to one side, the sharp slope of her shoulders accentuated by the cut of her dress. Jughead blinks a few times. “Unless you actually do want to go see—”

“God, no,” he says. “Jellybean had a phase where all she watched for a month was _Fifty First Dates_ and _The Wedding Singer_. I’m set for life.”

“Wow.” Veronica grins at him, that cheeky little twist of her mouth that makes her look every bit the menace she is. “Considering you’re her brother, I would have at least expected _Little Nicky_ thrown in there.”

“Why, because it’s your autobiography?” Jughead snarks. Veronica laughs, sharp and clear, and tugs on the hem of his jacket, borderline affectionate.

“Come on, grumpy,” she jerks her head towards the car, “there’s leftover takeout waiting for us.”

”Why am I not surprised that you’d bribe me with food,” he mutters, but gets in the car. It’s not like he could say no, even if he wanted to - Veronica would probably just kidnap him anyway.

(He spends the last twenty minutes of the movie panicking, wondering how he’s going to get back to the school without Veronica knowing since she’s _definitely_ going to drive him because God forbid he walk anywhere in the dark.

The thought of someone caring that much about his well being makes him a bit dizzy and uncomfortable, but also strangely warm, and then it doesn’t even matter in the end because she falls asleep curled on the corner of the couch like a kitten, legs tucked under her, mouth half open, the most undignified he’s ever seen her.

“I’m sorry, Mister Jones,” Smithers says simply, when Jughead tries to leave. “But Miss Veronica would never forgive me if I let you walk home at such an unsightly hour.”

Jughead stares at him. Smithers smiles. “The guest room is down the hall, third door on the right. I shall make sure Miss Veronica gets to her room.”

“Okay.” He surprises himself with how little he wants to fight it. The thought of a real, warm bed is too tempting. And Smithers is right - Veronica would unleash an unholy tempest of indignation if she found out he’d left in the night alone. “Thanks, Smithers.”

“Of course.” Smithers tips his hat and he’s got that same look in his eye Betty had had in the diner, Jughead realizes. He just wishes he knew what it meant.)

.

.

.

When he’s sitting by the river three days later, the cold wind sweeping off the water and nipping at his cheeks, laptop balanced on his knees, his phone buzzes.

It’s, of course, Veronica.

_b and kev cornered_ _me in the library to interrogate me about you omg_

Of course they had. They’d shown up at school together the morning after their ‘movie’, Jughead slightly rumpled and in the exact same clothes he’d worn the night before. Kevin had seen them get out of Veronica’s car together, eyebrows shooting upwards, and Jughead’s stomach had dropped out with all the assumptions he saw flashing across his face.

Jughead swallows. _Library?_ _You_ _mean you don’t pay someone to read for you?_

Her reply is instant. _hard to do that when i spend all my money supplying hamburgers to the empty void you have the audacity to call a digestive system._

He snorts. She’s got him there. _Arch_ _did the_ _same thing to me. What did you tell them?_

_that we’re madly, passionately in love and planning a spring wedding. you?_

Jughead coughs, laptop threatening to topple off his thighs, and tries to imagine how that went over. Kevin had probably nearly keeled over from a heart attack. Betty had more than likely just rolled her eyes - she was good at seeing through their bullshit.

_That I opened a gate to the Underworld to get rid of Reggie and accidentally summoned you instead._

Somehow, he can _feel_ the icy stare Veronica’s probably giving her phone through the screen.

_that’s actually more believable than what i really told them tbh_

_Why? What did you say?_

_that we’re friends_

His chest hitches. He doesn’t know why. _You call it friendship, I call it a hostage situation._

Veronica’s sigh is audible, even through text. He just knows her well enough now, he thinks. He knows her reactions. _same difference_

.

.

.

When his alarm goes off at six am, it feels like every other morning has since the drive-in closed: restless. The broom closet doesn’t have nearly enough room for him to stretch his legs, both literally and figuratively. At least at the drive-in he’d had a bed - somewhere he could stay up all night writing that wasn’t a sticky vinyl booth at Pop’s and had proper air circulation. Here, he can’t even sit up without the threat of banging something off the sharp corner of a shelf.

His alarm blares again. Jughead groans, rolls towards his backpack, and pulls out his shower bag. Another day, another homeless adventure. If Jellybean could see him now.

He’s post-shower damp in the locker room when his phone buzzes. He fumbles, toothbrush in his mouth, pants half-on, and catches the flash of Veronica’s name ( _Lady_ _Macbeth_ , because she was as fierce as she was tragic and also because she was evil incarnate) across the screen before it goes black. If she’d called him this early, it must be one of _those_ days. He throws his towel over his shoulder, grabs his bag and hits redial.

“Sorry,” is the first thing she says. She sounds tired. “I shouldn’t have called. I probably woke you up.”

“It’s fine, I love being awake before anyone else here or several time zones away,” Jughead deadpans, before he realizes he’s talking around his toothbrush. He shoves it haphazardly into his bag. “Your mom, I take it?”

Veronica sighs. It echoes, somehow. “Isn’t it always?”

Jughead flips his still wet bangs out of his eyes. Water drips down his nose. “You wanna elaborate, or would that ruin your mysterious new girl aesthetic?”

She huffs a laugh, sharp and loud. The echo persists. Jughead makes for the locker room door. “Well, I do know how much you love a good mystery.”

His mouth curls against his will, something he’s realized it’s been doing more and more of around her. He’s glad she isn’t here to see it. “Betty _has_ called me a Hardy Boy on more than one occasion.”

Somehow, mentioning Betty doesn’t have quite the same sting it used to.

Veronica snorts. “Maybe if that Hardy Boy was the child of Philip Marlowe and Luke Skywalker and raised by Satan.”

Jughead preens for a moment at the thought of being compared to such a literary icon, then pauses. “Luke Skywa— are you saying I have daddy issues or that I’m dramatic?”

“Yes,” Veronica says, like he wasn’t giving her options. She’s the _worst_.

He tells her as much and can hear the smile on her face through the phone. “Funny how that upsets you, but not the Satan part.”

“I mean,” Jughead feels warm and strangely on edge all at once, his skin buzzing with an energy he’s never dealt with before, “if the beanie fits, right?”

She’s barely started telling him about her mom’s affair (with Archie’s dad no less, which is already messy since Jughead’s pretty sure Fred’s still technically married and hadn’t Veronica and Archie made out?) when he steps out into the hall and then she stops because suddenly they’re face to face and she’s in her Vixens practice uniform and he’s in his _fucking_ _pyjamas_.

 _This_ _is_ _a_ _dream_ , he thinks almost hysterically, _this is a dream and she’s going to turn into Freddy Krueger and eviscerate me and put me out of my misery oh my God—_

Veronica puts her phone down slowly. He doesn’t think she’s even bothered hanging up. “Jughead?”

He mock salutes to hide the panic that’s surging through his chest, threatening to bubble up and spill across his face. “The one and only.”

Veronica blinks. She’s not wearing any makeup. He could count every dark eyelash if he stepped a little closer. She looks so young. “What are you doing here?”

Jughead freezes. Jughead deflects. “I could ask you the same thing - I thought Vixens only practiced at night when our resident Queen of the Damned is at her most powerful.”

The problem with deflecting, Jughead thinks, is that Veronica deals with his shit on a regular basis and doesn’t put up with it even at times when Betty or Archie would normally get distracted. It’s like she’s immune to all of his defense mechanisms and it’s terrifying.

“I wanted to avoid a blowout with my mom.” She cocks her hip, does that one eyebrow raise thing that drives him insane and, just like that, the little girl vulnerability is gone. “Your turn, Smells Like Teen Spirit. Spill.”

Jughead runs through all the lies he’s come up with in case this ever happened. He’d always figured it’d be Archie who’d find him out, or maybe even Betty (though the thought had filled him with a fear so strong it'd made him nauseous, a fear not unlike what he’s feeling right now) but never Veronica. He’d made a point of keeping her at arm's length, of never letting her get quite close enough to see past the sarcasm, even when she was an open book to him.

That makes him pause. He’s got a story all ready to go - the hot water’s off at his place, which isn’t really a lie, and she already knows he’s poor so it’s not like this is news - but. But. She’d trusted him with a lot more than he deserved - her family, her fears, her hiding the watery edge in her voice at one in the morning over the phone, her asking him how he was doing daily. Her noticing the bluish-purple marks under his eyes and telling him to go take a nap, she’d bring him her class notes later. Her, unable to reconcile her loving parents with the terrible things they’d done.

If nothing else, he thinks, he owes her this much. “Follow me.”

They don’t say anything the whole way down the hall, and she doesn’t say anything when he opens the broom closet, or when he shows her the sleeping bag, or when he explains his dad is an alcoholic gangbanger and his mom skipped town with his kid sister and left him to fend for himself, or when he explains he was living at the drive-in until it shut down (her breathing hitches though, this faint little catch he might not have noticed if he hadn’t been listening) and he’s terrified of what he’ll see on her face when he turns around, so he doesn’t. He’s shaking. He wants to puke.

Veronica puts her hand on his back carefully, says very softly, “Juggie.”

It’s the fact she’s never called him that before, that he’s never heard that gentle lilt in her voice directed at anyone other than Betty, that makes him so sure she pities him. The last thing he ever wanted from the last person he’d ever thought would find out.

“Don’t tell Betty,” he says unevenly, trying not to choke. He jerks away from her. She inhales hard. “Don’t tell Archie, either.”

“I—”

He can’t look at her, at what he’s sure he’ll see in her eyes and the downward twist of her mouth. He stares at a bottle of bleach instead. “Just, _don’t_.”

“Okay,” she says quietly. When he finally meets her gaze he can’t read her at all, which is somehow so much worse. “Okay.”

They stand there in silence until Jughead’s skin prickles and he realizes he’s still in his sleep clothes. Veronica is tugging at the hem of her shorts, eyes flicking between his sleeping bag and his hair. He’s never not worn his hat around her. He needs her to leave.

“I have to change,” he says.

“Practice starts soon,” she says.

They stare at each other. Jughead feels like someone is sitting on his ribcage and sucking all the air out of his lungs. Veronica searches his face for something, nods, and turns away.

“See you in History,” she mutters, and steps out into the hall. Jughead waits until her footsteps fade before he rushes the door and clicks the lock.

He feels dizzy. He wants to curl up into a ball. He wonders what she was trying to see in him. He’s not going to class today.

He texts Archie he’s sick and to grab his homework for him. He texts Betty the same thing because Archie will probably forget. He’ll spend the day in the park or by the lake writing until school’s out, and then he’ll go to Pop’s. He’s done it before.

At eight, Archies sends him _Feel_ _better_ _dude_ and Betty says _get_ _well_ _soon!!!_ with a flurry of emojis that make his chest warm. Veronica asks him if he wants a coffee. He ignores it.

By one, she’s texted him six times and called him twice. Her last text had read _FORSYTHE_ _PENDLETON_ _JONES_ _THE_ _THIRD_ _DON’T_ _YOU_ _DARE_ _IGNORE_ _ME_ and he imagines all the others before it were just a lead up to that, oh and also _who_ _the_ _hell_ _told_ _her_ _his_ _real_ _name_ _what_ _the_ _fuck._

He actually goes home around three instead of the diner because Veronica’s looking for him and she’s nothing if not stubborn and also possibly insane (see: her discovering his full name, probably through some kind of blood sacrifice to Cthulu or whatever demon hell lord rich New York socialites worship. Hopefully the sacrifice was Cheryl). His dad’s gone and there are liquor bottles everywhere and the heating is turned off again, but his room is untouched. He’s tempted to spend the night. He’s tempted to come home. He takes a nap instead.

By the time the sun sets he’s ducked back to the diner having written no more than he had that morning. Veronica hasn’t called or texted him again, and he finds himself checking his phone almost constantly as a result.

She’s gotten under his skin. She pities him. He has to put her back in the box she’d been in at the start of the year, the one labelled _Rich Snob I Would Never Hang Out With_. Even if it was a lie. Even if she was so much deeper than trust funds and stilettos and pearls.

Jughead settles into his usual booth, tapping the side of his laptop in annoyance. Every word he tries to write about Jason Blossom feels forced. He doesn’t want to know what he’d start writing if he let himself go, though, even if he already has a pretty good idea.

The door jingles. Jughead keeps scowling at his screen. A shadow and the smell of fresh flowers fall over him.

“Jughead,” Veronica’s voice is terrifyingly even, “you’ve been avoiding me.”

“It hasn’t even been a day,” he deadpans. He clenches his hands under the table so she won’t see them shake. He knows she can be cruel - he’s seen it in the way she protects Betty, heard it in her stories of her old life, felt it in the way her back stiffens when people whisper about him in the halls. He wonders if he’ll see it now. “Since when have you been so co-dependent, Moneybags?”

She rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t care if this sudden silent treatment didn’t conveniently coincide with me finding out you’re homeless, you tragic nineties grunge flashback.”

She says it so callously that it makes his blood boil. Here’s the rich girl he thought she’d be. Here’s the bored socialite who’s too good for him. “What would you know about being homeless? Even with all your shit seized, you’re _still_ living in a goddamn penthouse.”

“Don’t get mad at me.” Veronica’s lip curls. “I haven’t done anything.”

“I don’t want your pity.”

“I’m not offering you any.”

“What do you _want_ Veronica?” He’s exhausted. He’s scared. He desperately wants to be wrong. “To laugh? To make jokes?”

Veronica stares at him, something pained flickering across her face. Great, now _he_ feels like an asshole. “Do you really think I’d do that?”

He doesn’t. He wishes she would, though. “Based on what you’ve told me, it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve kicked someone when they’re down.”

Jughead expects tears. He expects a slap. He expects something deserving of him throwing her trust back in her face. What he doesn’t expect is Veronica blinking once, twice, and then scowling so fiercely he has to lean back.

“We have a guest room, bargain bin Cobain,” she finally snaps, slamming his laptop shut with one perfectly manicured hand. He stares down at it, caught somewhere between blinding panic and a white hot rage, with the insane thought of _her nicknames have a theme today._ There’s a scar just above the first knuckle of her middle finger. “Stop being so difficult.”

“I don’t want your charity,” he snarls, careful to keep his voice down. The last thing he needs is a scene in the middle of Pop’s about his current lack of living situation. “I’m not another way for you to prove you’re not the same shitty person you were back in New York.”

It feels, suddenly, like all the air in the room has turned to ice. Jughead looks up at her, up the smooth curve of her arm, over the jut of her collarbone, to the clenched edge of her jaw and the stony glare she’s looking at him with. He remembers, now, how dangerous Veronica Lodge is. How she’s the girl who bends to no one, who makes the universe move to her rhythm, who could probably part a sea if she really wanted it.

She leans in close, close enough that the dark tips of her hair spill over her shoulder and touch his wrist. Her voice is a paper-thin whisper. “Listen here, Lord of the Sighs, I’m not letting your homeless, spaghetti noodle looking ass spend one more night squatting or not sleeping or _whatever_ you’ve been doing all this time, so pack up your stuff and get in the goddamn car or so help me _God_ I will burn every building in this godforsaken town to the ground just so you have nowhere to sleep.”

“Petty,” he mumbles, watching her lips flatten out into a thin line. “I didn’t take you for an arsonist.”

“I’m a Lodge.” She exhales, still close enough that he can feel the heat of it against his throat. He swallows hard. “We don’t play by the rules.”

Jughead really hopes he never meets her dad, considering she’s barely five feet tall and a whirlwind of terror all on her own.

Veronica doesn’t pull away until he starts packing his stuff up. Some small part of him wants to stop, just to see if she’ll come back.

.

.

.

In the back of her town car, on the way to the Pembrooke, hurriedly whispered out of the corner of his mouth like a secret: “Spaghetti noodle?”

She’s all folded arms and creased brows and fur lined winter coat staring out the window, at her nails, anywhere that isn’t him. He deserves it. “I’ll admit, not one of my finer insults but I’m hungry and you were pissing me off.”

Jughead nods. “Valid.”

They don’t say anything else.

.

.

.

Her mom, surprisingly, doesn’t so much as blink when Veronica hauls him into the apartment by one arm and declares, “Jughead’s homeless so he’ll be sleeping in the guest room indefinitely.”

Jughead’s face burns. “Tell everyone, why don’t you.”

“I _will_ ,” Veronica says icily, reminding him that he was an asshole to her earlier and she’s still angry. “Don’t tempt me.”

Miss Lodge crosses one leg over the other smoothly, all grace and poise and the same endlessly dark eyes as her daughter. “I’ll have Smithers make up the guest room.”

Jughead is struck by how much Veronica looks like her mother, suddenly; glossy haired and elegant limbed, with a natural quirk on the right side of their mouths that makes them look like they’re always one step ahead. Even the way they hold wine glasses is the same - casually, like the glass could slip from their fingers at any moment. Veronica favours mimosas, though, because they’re a little sweet and make her cheeks flush prettily without getting her too drunk. The one time she’d made him try one he’d spent the whole night watching the way she drank hers, the motion of her throat as she swallowed, the curve of her arm as she tipped the glass back.

Something in Veronica’s shoulders loosens. She lets go of his arm and leans over to kiss her mother on the cheek. “Thanks, mom.”

Miss Lodge smiles. “Anything for you, mija.”

Jughead feels like he’s intruding on a moment that isn’t his to see - something gentle and lovely that had been trying to grow for months and had finally come to life. He remembers all of Veronica’s late night phone calls, her refusals to go home, her desperate attempts not to cry some nights.

He’s happy for her, he realizes. She deserves this kind of warmth in her life. She deserves to be appreciated. Her smile when she turns to him is genuine and brings a light to her face he’s only seen a handful of times before - directed at Betty, at Archie, and more recently… him.

“Well, Torombolo, shall I give you the tour?”

Like he hasn’t been here a million times before. Like he didn’t fall asleep in the same guest room they’re making up for him weeks before as if he’d always belonged there.

“Sure, American Psycho.” He sighs deeply. Miss Lodge snorts into her wine glass. Veronica doesn’t even look mad at him anymore, just exasperated and a little amused. He still owes her an apology for the diner. “Lead the way.”

(He makes her hot chocolate from scratch, because he knows she hates store bought and she’d always talked so wistfully about the stuff she’d had in Paris, while she’s changing. Miss Lodge watches him, quietly, sipping at her wine, but it isn’t as unnerving as he’d thought it’d be.

When Veronica comes out in a loose tank and silk shorts he almost drops her mug - she’s soft like this, soft and young the way Betty always carried herself, the way he never thought Veronica could be.

She curls her hands around the mug, fingers half over his, and gets that look again - the one she’d had in the janitor's closet, like she’s trying to see something in him but he doesn’t know what she’s looking for now anymore than he did then.

“Thanks, Juggie,” she mumbles, lashes fluttering, but he knows what she really means is _you’re forgiven._ )

.

.

.

Living with Veronica makes him painfully aware of how unfathomably goddamn attractive she is. He’d always known (he wasn’t _blind_ ) but this is different somehow. Their dynamic has changed.

Like: he keeps seeing her in her sleep clothes and it sends a sharp lick of heat down his spine every time that makes him want to either run and hide or trail his palm down the gentle slope of her back, both of which are entirely inappropriate reactions, so he’s stuck looking at her like a deer in the headlights with his hands twitching every. Single. Time.

Today, it happens when he nearly runs into her coming out of the washroom, towel thrown over his shoulder.

“Bathroom’s all yours, Edgar Allen Woe.” Her face is scrubbed clean, shiny and bare, her hair tied up in the sloppiest ponytail he’s ever seen. He wonders what it means, that she’ll let him see her so unrefined. That he keeps looking at the gentle swell of her bottom lip with something that is terrifyingly closer to longing than it is teenage lust.

He swallows hard. Rolls his eyes. “Just how many hours a day do you dedicate to coming up with these nicknames for me.”

Veronica sighs wistfully, patting his chest as she passes him, the weight of her hand searing through his shirt. This is _bad_. “Not nearly enough.”

.

.

.

New Year’s Eve isn’t nearly as much of a shitshow as it usually is, for once. Archie is going to a kegger the football team is determined to throw at Reggie’s house, even though the entire town knows about it and odds are it’ll get shut down before it even starts. Betty is spending it with Polly and her parents, or maybe _mediating_ is a more appropriate term. And Veronica -

“I’m not leaving you here alone, Jughead,” she says, cocking one hip and leaning against the kitchen counter. She’s in this sparkly mini dress with a complicated cross-back that makes Jughead dizzy just looking at it. Miss Lodge is watching them from the door, one eyebrow quirked, wool coat thrown over her arm. “You’ll just sit here and wallow until a minute after twelve and then go to bed.”

“I don't see what’s so wrong with that.”

“It’s _depressing_.”

Jughead sighs, and lays his head down on the dining table. Veronica gives him headaches like no other. “I’m not going to your weird masquerade party of doom, alright? You made me watch _Gossip Girl_ with you - I know how they end.”

“Oh, my God,” Veronica mutters, rubbing one hand across her face. Her eyeliner smudges a little, but she doesn’t seem to notice or care and Jughead kind of likes seeing her mussed up and exasperated. Less perfect socialite, more Veronica. More real. “Fine! Fine.”

Jughead relishes in his victory for exactly five seconds before Veronica turns to her mom and goes, “give everyone my best.”

“Of course,” Miss Lodge says smoothly, like she’d been expecting this exact scenario to happen, while Jughead sputters in the background. “Have fun, you two.”

And then she’s out the door and Jughead is left staring at the smooth, bare skin of Veronica’s back and the way her black hair shines almost blue under the kitchen lights with a dry mouth and a bubble of panic working its way through his chest.

“Well, then.” Veronica turns on one sharp heel towards the hallway, rolling her eyes. “I’m going to go change. Pick a movie that won’t lead us to another yelling match over cinematography, please.”

Jughead doesn’t even get a word in before she closes her bedroom door. He wants to think she’s mad at him, for ruining her night, even though he literally didn’t _do_ anything but something in the slackness of her face and the brightness of her eyes makes him think she’s not angry at all.

She actually had seemed sort of… happy.

He’s debating between _Pulp Fiction_ and _Amalie_ when she comes back out in the most conservative pyjamas he’s seen on her yet - an oversized band t-shirt and cotton shorts. He squints at her for a minute.

“Is that,” his heart stutters, “ _my_ shirt?”

Veronica looks down at it, tugging on the hem, and shrugs. Her face is unreadable, which is alarming because Jughead has gotten very good at reading her over the past few months. “It was in my room and it’s comfy.”

“Oh,” his voice cracks, pitches a little higher at the end, makes him sound as terrified as he actually is. “Okay.”

Veronica blinks at him slowly, the flutter of her impossibly long lashes distracting. “Did you pick something?”

“ _Amalie_ ,” he says, even though he’d been leaning more towards Tarantino. There’s something strangely romantic about how she looks right now, in his shirt, with her face bare, rubbing the back of her ankle with her foot almost nervously. It just feels appropriate, somehow.

Veronica raises one eyebrow, but smiles. “Sounds good. I’ll make popcorn.”

Jughead nods, watching her walk back to the kitchen, his stomach rolling, the feeling that they’re hurtling over a line neither of them had even known existed in the back of his head.

.

.

.

The credits start rolling just past twelve, and Veronica exhales, almost dream-like, “what a way to start the new year.”

He can feel every tiny shift of her body, the way the leather of the sofa squeaks as she tucks one leg under her, the whiff of strawberry shampoo he gets when she rolls her shoulders and tips her head to one side. He’s been hyper aware of her the whole movie and, if he’s being honest with himself, even longer than that - the whole time he’s been staying with her, the whole time he’s known her. Maybe even before, when she was just a pretty girl dressed up too nice for their shitty town and he was as curious as he was disinterested.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, but everything else he wants to say gets lost when she flicks her eyes towards him, the sweet curl of her mouth soft and adoring. Every time she looks at him like that he thinks: maybe, _maybe_ —

He carefully reaches down for her hand and squeezes her fingers, staring at the television screen.

Veronica inhales sharply - Jughead waits for her to pull away, to laugh, to look at him apologetically too. He’s been ready for it ever since he realized he had this weird fondness for her, something that sat between constant aggravation and wanting to keep her close. They may be two outsiders trying to shake up the status quo, may have more in common than they thought, but movie cliches don’t come true, not even in Riverdale - the poor kid doesn’t get the rich girl. He’s not even a blip on her radar.

Veronica doesn’t do any of those things, though, and maybe he should have known better because she’s never let herself be confined by his expectations. Instead, he feels her fingers curl back around his, and she shuffles closer to him so their thighs are pressed together, knee to hip.

“Took you long enough to make a move,” she says quietly, like she’s scared if she’s too loud it’ll shatter this fragile, tentative, desperately perfect moment. She turns her head and brushes her lips against his shoulder. “I was starting to think I’d have to take drastic action.”

“More drastic than having me live with you?” he says back, swallowing hard past the lump in his throat.

Veronica flicks a look up at him and even with no makeup on she’s all sultry cat eyes and dark lashes. He keeps staring at the gentle curves of her lips. “Something like that.”

“I’m broke as shit,” is what he blurts out, because he is truly stupid. “Your dad’s going to hate me and you’ll end up paying for everything.”

Veronica blinks up at him and then smiles with all her teeth, an echo of the one she’d given him not that long ago in the diner when this had all started. “Only until you establish yourself as the next Ginsberg.”

“What if I don’t?”

“Who cares?” She presses her mouth to the corner of his quickly, barely a brush of skin, a lick of heat against his cheek. “I don’t.”

Jughead sucks in a breath. “Am I being Punk’d?”

Veronica rolls her eyes. Then she swings a leg across his lap, balancing precariously above him on her knees, her sleep shirt rucked up around her hips. “You’re an idiot. I like you, stupid. A lot.”

“Be still my beating heart,” he deadpans, even though he feels like she’s cracked his rib cage open and reached in for something he never thought he’d be able to give. “Is this how you get all your dates?”

“No,” her voice drops, a little raspier, “usually I just do this.”

And then she kisses him, hot and fast and a little wet, her lips slick from her chapstick and cherry flavoured, fingers twisting in his hair and tilting his head back. Jughead doesn’t know what to do with his hands or his anything really because _Veronica fucking Lodge_ is in his lap, so he presses his palms to the tops of her bare thighs and opens his mouth against hers.

When she pulls back, her eyes are glassy and she’s panting. Jughead thinks he might look the same. “Um.”

Veronica presses the edge of her teeth to the side of his neck and huffs a laugh against his throat. “Jughead Jones, at a loss for words? I never thought I’d see the day.”

He finds himself reaching for the courage he hadn’t had earlier, as she sits up and looks down at him with an emotion he can’t describe. “That’s hilarious coming from you, peanut gallery.”

Then he curls one hand around the nape of her neck and pulls her down. Her lips are soft and warm, and when she kisses she does it like she does everything else - wholeheartedly, with a force that shakes him to his core.

Her fingers flex against his jaw as she pushes against him a bit harder. Jughead inhales through his nose, touches her side, rubs his thumb along the crease of her hip through her top. The gentle pressure of her mouth on his is enough to make him want to keep doing this forever, and then she’s biting his lower lip with a giggle and pulling back.

“Not bad, Jones.” Her cheeks are pink, and it’d be cute except she’s dragging her tongue over the front of her teeth and the flush is going all the way down her neck. “You could do with more practice, though.”

“Don’t worry,” he breathes, already tugging her and her dark eyes and her cheeky little smile towards him, “I’m a slow learner.”


End file.
